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partystoragechest · 1 year ago

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A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, there are fireworks. Sort of.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,790. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 22: Hardly Working

The Inquisition’s red lyrium sample was kept far, far below.

Far below the Undercroft, where Trevelyan and Dagna prepared for their descent. Far below the dungeons, where two guards escorted them deeper still. Far below the sounds of people and life. Far, far below.

Door after door barred their path, each more fortified than the last. The keys were old and rusted, having existed much longer than the castle’s current occupants. The passages beyond were long and winding. One was not supposed to know the way. The stone of the stairs they descended appeared as if new. Few feet had ever trespassed here.

Trevelyan could not help but wonder for what this place had originally been built to contain.

Further they went. The darkness that had settled upon these steps was cast aside by the light of a torch, held aloft in the hand of one of their guides. Trevelyan felt its warmth in the air, and glanced nervously at the small chest Dagna carried. Their device lay inside—insulated, inert. But it was still within Trevelyan to worry.

The long stairwell curved, the end at last coming into sight, a chamber door revealed. Daylight—somehow, daylight—poured through its barred window, casting a slotted shadow upon the floor. Had they come so far as to breach the bottom of the mountain?

“Here we are,” said a guard, producing the largest, oldest, and most complex key yet. “Be careful, Arcanist; your Ladyship.”

He opened the door. Breath escaped Trevelyan’s body.

The cavern beyond was thrice the size of the Undercroft, in both height and depth. And like the Undercroft, it, too, had a maw: a narrow fissure running high across the back wall, like the slash of a gigas claw, through which light spilled in its gallons.

This, however, was not the central feature of the space. Indeed, it was only there to light the central feature of the space. For in this chamber, suspended by the strength of three large chains, was a small stone chest. Red.

The size of the cavern was such that, in the doorway as they were, Trevelyan and Dagna still stood a good sixty feet from it. But its glow was evident. Cracks in the stone, where the red lyrium had broken its bonds, pulsated with that eerie colour. Trevelyan felt she should step no closer.

“Smart to keep it off the ground,” she commented.

“Have to,” Dagna replied. “Grows fast! We change the casket every three weeks—sometimes the chains, too, if it’s gotten a little enthusiastic.”

“I take it that’s why it’s made of stone?”

“Yeah! Grows through it slower than metal or wood—especially wood. It loves organic material! But for stone, I think it… respects it, kind of? Like it remembers where it comes from, almost… Anyway! Let’s get to it!”

With brazen confidence, Dagna marched beyond the threshold. Trevelyan remained reluctant to follow. No wonder she was being paid so well.

Swallowing her unease, she left the guards posted at the door, and entered the room. But as soon as she did, she could feel it.

She had been near lyrium, before. The Formari in her Circle used it, and she would sometimes have to visit their workshops in the midst of her storeroom duties. Dagna employed it quiet frequently, too, but Trevelyan would keep to the other side of the Undercroft, or run errands. She didn’t like it, particularly. It made her dizzy.

Red lyrium was worse. Only a few feet closer, and a hum entered her mind. A constant, droning hum. There was pressure on her head, too—like a hand, pushing down with all its might. Trevelyan tried not to give it her attention.

“All right,” Dagna said, setting the chest down about forty feet from the casket, “let’s activate!”

Slow and careful, she lifted the lid. Trevelyan held her breath.

But as their device was revealed, the world remained still—and Trevelyan was grateful for it. Though it did not look one, this thing they had created was better called a bomb.

Dagna reached in, and lifted it out: a thick, metal disc—about the size of a dinner plate—held best and most carefully in two hands. Trevelyan’s eyes scoured the surface for any change. But the runes inscribed onto it—runes of her own design—maintained a faint glow. Safe.

The moment it touched the ground, Dagna whipped out her toolbelt. Trevelyan took up the usual position beside her, ready and willing to do or hold anything that Dagna instructed her to. Theory was more her domain. The practical—this—was best left to Dagna.

And so she tinkered away, runes beginning to brighten. The buzz of their growing magic competed for space in Trevelyan’s mind. She began to gather Fade energy around her fingers. Just… in… case...

“Ooh, shiny!”

Trevelyan startled, and whirled. Dorian Pavus stood behind her, gazing down on Dagna’s work. He noticed Trevelyan’s stare, and smiled.

“Dorian?”

“Don’t mind me”—he winked—“just came to see the show.”

Though Trevelyan rolled her eyes, she could not help but smile. “Very well,” she said, and returned her focus to Dagna.

Dorian did the same. He even managed to stay quiet for some number of seconds—though it seemed the banality of observation could not satisfy his ever-operational mind for long. Whilst Trevelyan handed Dagna a precise-looking implement, Dorian asked:

“Will you be attending the banquet?”

Maker, that thing kept slipping her mind. She would have to make certain her gown was ready.

“Yes,” she told him, “will you?”

“Physically, yes. Mentally? No.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Likewise.”

There followed a brief moment of quiet. But Dorian would not be quelled so easily.

“...Have you seen the guest list?”

Trevelyan gave him an exasperated look, yet answered regardless: “I have. Though I fear I recognise very few of the names, and know only their characters from the descriptions given to me by the other Ladies.”

“Oh,” Dorian chuckled. “Then you are in for quite the evening! I met some of these people at the Winter Palace. I also met some demons. Completely indistinguishable.”

“Which did you prefer?”

“Oh, I think you know. After all, it’s at least socially acceptable to strike demons with lightning.”

Trevelyan laughed. “The more I hear, the more I wonder why they have all been invited in the first place.”

“Because ‘keeping the peace’, something like that.”

“But why are we all to be involved?” Trevelyan complained.

Dorian smiled. “I hardly know. But far be it from anyone to refuse our lovely Ambassador.”

A flare of magic stole Trevelyan’s attention. She looked back at Dagna, whose grinning face reflected a blue glow. The device below her pulsated, lyrium energy blooming from its carved runes.

“There we go!” she sang. “Activated. How’s that magic amplification feeling?”

“I can certainly feel it!” answered Trevelyan. “I merely hope it’s enough to bypass the anti-magic effects.”

Dagna hauled the device into her arms. “So do I, because I added a little extra oomph. Just in case!”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened. “Are you sure that’s a good—!?”

Dagna punted the device towards the red lyrium casket. Trevelyan scarcely had time to draw breath.

It was like a clap of thunder. Booming sound and blinding light plunged them into darkness. Smoke and dust and falling debris. Reverberations rumbled through the stone around them. Clanging of chains. Whining in the ears. All of Skyhold shuddered, and then fell to silence.

When Trevelyan dared open her firm-shut eyes, a dark and burning haze surrounded her. Yet, it did not touch her. Her arms were outstretched; energy cocooned her. Smoke shifted and moved against the shimmering surface of a protective barrier. She’d got it up just in time.

A quick glance to either side. Dagna was all right, thanks to her shield. Seemingly unfazed by the explosion, the Arcanist looked with shining eyes into the cloud of dust from whence it had come.

Dorian, meanwhile, appeared to have had the same idea as Trevelyan—arms outstretched, barrier up. He met her gaze.

“Great minds!” he said, his levity not quite masking the shake in his voice. “Would you like to do the honours”—he nodded towards the smoke—“or shall I?”

“You,” Trevelyan told him, “I’ll hold.”

“Very well. In three, two, one—” Dorian dropped his share of the barrier. Trevelyan held firm.

With her protection, he began to twist his hands. She felt a pull, as he put out his call, and summoned the Fade.

One of his fists balled up tight, a gathering of energy thickening within. He raised this hand to his face, fingers unfurling before his mouth. With one deep and powerful exhalation, he blew.

His breath turned to a hurricane wind, and blasted forth, unimpeded by Trevelyan’s barrier. Smoke and dust was banished from the chamber. Light poured in once more.

“Wow…” breathed Dagna.

Wow, indeed.

The scene before them had changed entirely. The chains that once suspended the red lyrium chest hung loose, half-extant, against the stone walls. They rattled in the breeze of Dorian’s spell.

The casket they had held? Gone. All that remained in its wake was a large, circular scorch mark, burnt into the floor.

Trevelyan dropped her barrier. “Oh Maker, it worked!”

“Yes!” cheered Dagna, pumping a fist into the air. “It worked! Though, I guess the bad news is, we lost our red lyrium sample!”

Dorian grinned. “Rather the point, wasn’t it?”

“Are you all well?” called one of the guards, from the doorway. Trevelyan had just been about to ask the same of them.

“We’re well!” she replied.

“Mainly because of that barrier of yours,” Dorian muttered. “Good form. Strong. I know very few mages who could create one so stable without a focus—other than myself, of course.”

Trevelyan chuckled. “It was only a barrier.”

“True, but I’ve seen very little magic of yours, and I feel I should like to see more. You’ve got more power than you’re letting on.”

There was a good reason for that: “I suppose I got accustomed to not practicing it. My parents weren’t exactly keen on my using magic around the house.”

Dorian laughed. “We had very different upbringings! But—anyway, you aren’t under the thumb of your parents now. You ought to be loosing fireballs upon the sky.”

“Or causing large explosions?” Trevelyan suggested, gesturing to where Dagna prowled the scorch-circle.

“Fair point.”

Dagna interrupted: “Your Ladyship, we should get started on sweeping the room for trace remains. I want to know if anything was left at all.”

“Absolutely,” said Trevelyan, curious of that herself. She had noticed that the head-pressure was gone—but that did not mean every shard of red lyrium was.

Dorian, meanwhile, took a step back. “Well, you have my congratulations, both of you—but I am leaving before someone asks me to help clean up.”

“I don’t think she meant that kind of sweeping,” said Trevelyan.

“I heard the word ‘sweeping’, I’m leaving,” insisted Dorian. “Best of luck.”

They gave him their farewells and waved him off. Trevelyan watched him as far as the door, then turned away as he disappeared up the stairs. Her eyes were needed on the floor.

But her mind lingered elsewhere.

“Dagna, I’ll be just a moment,” she said, “I need Dorian to pass a message along.”

Dagna permitted her leave, and Trevelyan hurried away. With any luck, the sheer amount of stairs would have slowed Dorian down.

And indeed she found him, halfway up the first ascent. Nearly out of breath, she managed to call:

“Dorian, wait!”

He stopped and waited, sure enough—probably glad of the break. “Miss me already?”

“Naturally, but that is not why I came,” she said, taking a moment. “I wanted to ask, will you tell the Commander we’ve succeeded? He’ll have likely heard the explosion—most of Skyhold will, and I want him to know it’s all right.”

Dorian folded his arms. “And when exactly did I become your messenger boy?”

“I know this is far beneath your standards, but I think he would better see a friend right now, than a... suitor. Given his, ah, current circumstances.”

A sly little chuckle spilled from Dorian’s mouth. “Oh, I think he’d much prefer to see you than I, on any given day. But if you think it best, I shall go and take your glory.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the trouble.”

She expected him to take the message and dart off, but Dorian seemed to settle himself upon the stair on which he stood, and fixed her with a frown.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Why would I not be?”

“Cullen—the Commander—believed you weren’t, the last we spoke. He mentioned you found him… you know.”

So Dorian knew. Of course he would, given his friendship with the Commander. Trevelyan did not blame him for not telling her of the circumstances. Such closeness required confidence.

Regardless, she sighed. “I told him yesterday I was fine. Several times.”

Dorian laughed, and hopped down a step—to meet her eye-to-eye, and speak in more hushed tones. Those guards were still down there, somewhere. “He is something of a worrywart. You seem all right to me.”

Trevelyan nodded, her back slumping against the wall of the passage. Maker, the stone was cold. “Have you ever seen him like that?”

“No. Though as I understand it, it’s a rare occurrence for him,” Dorian explained. “The Inquisitor’s seen it, though. Cullen once threw something at our dear Herald’s head!”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened. Dorian must have taken note, for he immediately followed with:

“Well, not at the Inquisitor; the Inquisitor just so happened to walk in at precisely the wrong moment. A habit. Cullen was throwing it at the door, in anger, unaware someone was about to walk through. We all joke about it—it’s how we know he isn’t a spy for Corypheus. If he was, he wouldn’t have missed.”

Trevelyan smiled. She could hardly judge the Commander for acting upon his anger whilst believing himself to be alone. One needed to, sometimes. She’d set some things on fire in private moments. Most recently being yesterday.

Dorian sighed, and shook his head. “I thought he was on the up, you know. He said this one was bad—though you, especially, are already aware of that. Peaks and troughs, I suppose, and you can’t predict when one will follow the other.”

“It is impossible to know,” commiserated Trevelyan. “No one has managed to survive it, to my knowledge. It’s like the Grey Wardens. Departure comes only through death.”

The mention of the latter word seemed to light a fire in Dorian. “Well, let’s hope that’s not the case, shall we? I’m sure it’ll all shake out. After all, the Inquisition’s best boffins are on it—Dagna included! And it’s more than the Chantry’s ever done—though the southern Chantry isn’t particularly known for doing much…”

Yet another person Trevelyan was now convinced that Baroness Touledy could have a scintillating conversation with. She would merely need an opportunity for introduction. Banquet, perhaps?

“Anyway, I best be off to deliver your message,” he continued. “Though, if I am to do so, I’ll no doubt be asked if I doubled-checked: are you sure you’re all right?”

“Of course,” Trevelyan confirmed. “Is he?”

“Peaks and troughs.”

“I see. Do you think he will attend the banquet?”

Dorian laughed. “I hope not. His table manners are very Fereldan.”

She knew the joke was to make her smile, but she could barely manage it. Her worries were too overpowering. “It’s hardly going to be good for him,” she muttered, continuing—without thinking—to say: “having us suitors running around after him is strife enough.”

Dorian’s lip quirked upward. “Oh, if you want to talk the ethics of this little competition of yours, it goes far deeper than that.”

The comment pulled Trevelyan from her own mind. “Oh?”

He shrugged. “Well, I’ve not quite put my finger on it yet, but… it all feels rather sordid. Not quite right. Not quite right at all.”

Trevelyan was at once reminded of the argument she overheard between the Commander and Lady Montilyet. Just what had that been about, truly?

“Have you spoken to the Commander about it?”

Dorian chuckled. “Oh, you have no idea of what we talk about. You come up quite frequently.”

Trevelyan did not know how to feel about that. Though she was certainly feeling something.

“Ergo,” continued Dorian, “I have. But the man is obstinate, and I feel there may be powers at play that I cannot interfere with.”

“Whose?” asked Trevelyan.

Dorian smiled. “Oh, it’s as I say: far be it from anyone to refuse our lovely Ambassador.”

#unwanted #unwanted fic #look i am more natural with dialogue than description this i know why do u think i chose to write a genre where its people talking a lot #but i reeeeeally wanted the description of the red lyrium chamber to be mission status: sick as hell #i wrote it while fully awake and raring to go #and wrote the rest when i was tired and barely had time #and would you BELIEVE which part i ended up rewriting every day for five days on the trot #SPOILER: IT WASN'T THE PART I WROTE WHILE HALF-ASLEEP #this was my first instance of writer's block for a while and it suuuuuuuucked!!!!! almost in tears!!!! wtf!!!! its just silly words!!!#anyway thats enough complaining enjoy goodnight i am out!!!

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